


it's a quiet kind of love

by queenmcgonagall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:02:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmcgonagall/pseuds/queenmcgonagall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The quiet routine of our quiet lives is a comforting thrill under my skin. The sound of your singing in the shower, unrestrained like you never are. I sit and read my book and listen to you live all around me and I think I’m caught in your orbit and there’s nowhere else I’d like to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's a quiet kind of love

Your tea is getting cold. 

I can hear you standing in the bathroom, combing your hair and toweling off. You’re talking to yourself, about your to-do list. Gotta call your mum, get that present for Lottie, we’re out of milk. Towel wrapped around your waist, you’re such a picture of domesticity. There’s a small curl of warmth hiding somewhere behind my lungs and everyday my fingertips itch to touch the back of your neck, make sure you’re actually real. 

I sit in bed, blankets up to my hips, reading that new book your mum sent me a few weeks ago. Every time I try and read, you sit in my lap and try and read upside down and distract me until my quiet reading-time has turned into desperate fingers and high pitched whining. I figure the only way I could get a few pages read is that in between time when I’ve already showered and you’re still fussing about in the bathroom, brushing your teeth and leaving globs of toothpaste everywhere for me to clean up. Your underwear is lying on the floor, isn’t it. I know it is. Guess I’m doing laundry tomorrow. 

You come out of the bathroom and strike a pose in the doorway. The soft light of the bathroom lights you up from behind and I think for the millionth time that I’m in love with a goddamn angel. Your wet hair sits slick against your neck, a few drops of water clinging to the dark strands. Goddamn angel. You shimmy around with your towel, flick your wet hair towards me. That smirk with the little fangs and the crinkly-eyed smile, god you light up. 

It’s midnight. We had lasagna for dinner. Just you and me and our feet under the table and the clinking of forks against that new set of plates you bought on a whim at the supermarket the other day. You smiled at me. Still makes little shivers run down my arms when I make you smile, feels like I’m 16 again and so in love with the boy with the big voice and the secret smiles.

It’s so easy, this. Living. With you. It’s like breathing, its like the simple in and out, inhale love, exhale love. It’s like we’ve slipped into the cracks in each other’s bones, filled each other out, smoothed it all over, sealed it with a nice varnish of total and complete adoration. Its like my heart can’t thump without hearing the echo of yours. It’s pretty easy being in love with you. Not always. No. Not always. But the simple act of loving the way your eyelashes cast shadows on your cheeks, the simple act of loving the soft dimples in your thighs, the beautiful way you open your eyes in the morning, sleepy and soft with your hair askew and your neckline pulled over to expose your collarbones. God, it’s so easy to love that. 

You drop your towel and give a little hip thrust and I shake my head at you because oh my god that towel will make the carpet wet and I know you won’t pick it up and you know I won’t either because I’m already in bed, so I think fuck it if the carpet’s wet, I’m getting a striptease so who the fuck cares. 

You dance across the room, arms flailing in what could be a salsa dance, and take a flying leap onto the bed. You’re more like a hyper 9 year old kid at bath time than an adult trying to seduce his lover. You crawl across the bed, sit in between my thighs, on top of the comforter. Snap my book closed and set it on the bedside table. Your eyes are such a dark blue, like they get when the exhaustion is running in ribbons through your veins and your heart is heavy and full. I’ve got my hands on your hips, spread out so my thumbs touch your pointy little hip bones and my pinkies settle in the dips of your back. You lean in, bite my lip with sharp teeth and giggle a breathy laugh against my lips. Been like this since day one, it’s almost impossible not to smile when kissing you. First time you ever kissed me, our teeth clacked together because we were grinning so hard. 

You lean down, bite my nipples, and it’s hard to keep that gasp in but your little smirk at the corner of your mouth tells me I wasn’t as quiet as I thought. God, you suck. I think I said that last part out loud, because you laugh loudly and roll your hips once, swallow my groan, and then roll off my lap and onto your back till you’re beside me, head smushed next to my thigh. 

You sit up and crawl underneath the covers and bury your nose into the side of my chest, curl your fingers into little fists and shove them under your body. God, I love when you do that. I pick up my book again and open to the page I was on. You whine breathily and quietly about the light being too bright and I shush you and wrap an arm around your little shoulders that fit so perfectly under my arm. 

It’s nice here. Calm. In our big bed with the curtains closed and the soft glow of the bedside lamp and my stack of books on the bedside table, and your iPad on your side of the bed. The stacks of clean laundry sitting on the dresser, your little pile of dirty laundry in the corner that I always refuse to clean up until the very last minute before laundry day and every time, you convince me to clean it up for you. Sometimes it’s a blowjob, sometimes it’s first pick of the Friday night film, but god you’ve got a persuasive thing about you, haven’t you? Must be the hips. Or the eyes. 

As I’m reading the last paragraph of the chapter, I mentally prepare for morning. Wake up with your hair in my nose, turn off the alarm, kick you out of bed, start breakfast, call Niall and make sure he’s up. And then it’s time to fall in love with you all over again, like I do every single day when you walk into the kitchen rubbing your sleepy eyes with fists like a 4 year old child and a yawn like a baby lion’s. When you rub your hands over my bare stomach to warm them up and then slump against the stove while the kettle boils. I fall in love with your grumpy frown at being woken up so early, I fall in love with your soft hair that dried strangely after your shower, I fall in love with the way your pajama bottoms hang so low on your hips I can see the faint trail of hair disappearing into your waistband and it’s all I can do to stay stirring the pot of oatmeal and not lay you out on the kitchen table right then and there. God I love you.

I reach over and set my book on top of the pile of to-read books, turn off the light and scoot down into the covers. You’re snoring already, little breaths that tickle my ribcage. Your bare toes are cold against my shin, but it’s alright. I roll over, tuck your head under my chin, marvel at the way you fit so smoothly into me, like a puzzle piece. It’s like I’ve been waiting for you to fill in the hollows of my body with the rounded curves of yours, like there’s been a little hole in the corner of my lungs and you just strutted right in and filled it with your flashing blue eyes and your small little hands and your heart that’s too big for the world we live in.

It’s quiet except for the soft whir of the air conditioning, the little huffs of your breathing, the distant creaks and moans of our home settling into itself.

It’s a quiet kind of night. Quiet kind of love.


End file.
